


Convalescence

by EllenD



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Alpha Hannibal Lecter, Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Angst, Blood and Gore, Crime Scenes, Discussion of Abortion, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Mating Cycles/In Heat, Mpreg, Omega Will, Paternity, Torture
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-02-20
Updated: 2019-03-30
Packaged: 2019-11-01 11:15:39
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 2
Words: 8,001
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17866232
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/EllenD/pseuds/EllenD
Summary: Hannibal loves Will and wants to possess him. Will loves Hannibal back but isn't so sure he wants to be possessed. However, a misstep puts Will in a serial killer and rapist's crosshairs, leading to an attack that has him needing some healing and loving care. Hannibal has it all under control. Contains gratuitous hurt/comfort and angst. (Takes place around season one, so Will still has no idea that Hannibal is... Hannibal.)





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> No profits made, no copyright infringement intended! Please heed the warnings, there is graphic content ahead!

Will’s station wagon was parked lopsided in his driveway when Hannibal got home. He pulled up flush behind it, effectively trapping it onto the narrow strip of pavement, then unfolded himself out of his car and took a breath of the crisp winter air.

Even with the windows rolled up and starting to frost, he could scent the inside of Will’s car, the molecules of Will’s life and habits: aftershave and dogs and bonfire smoke, coffee and new snow and winter wheat.

Entering his house, he saw that Will had left a spoor of disarray that led from the entryway to the parlor: shoes with laces askew by the door, a smudge on the hardwood floor left by a foot in a damp sock, a jacket flung over a chair, a bag slumped against a wall, a sofa pillow on the floor.

He found Will curled up on the most comfortable couch in the house, quivery and grayish with knees tucked to his chest. There was a steaming mug of tea on the end table with, thankfully, a coaster tucked under it.

“Hello, Will.”

“I stole one of your blankets,” Will mumbled without looking up.

He had one of Hannibal’s imported angora wool afghans wrapped around him. The edge was trailing onto the floor. The sweat in his hair had probably dripped onto it, air-drying in the embroidery. It should have annoyed Hannibal, but it didn’t. Instead he found it endearing: Will in a woolly cocoon. He’d given Will the key to his house, with and offer to _come over whenever you need to,_ and It pleased him, to see Will taking him up on it.

“It’s yours,” he said easily, then went to sit down on the other end of the couch, patting the lump that was Will’s feet. He searched out the toes and gave them each a small squeeze, one after another. “Everything I have could be yours. If you like.”

Will chuckled at that, looking up at him through smeared glasses and giving him a shaky smile. He untucked an arm to grab Hannibal’s hand. “I might have to ask _you_ to ask _me_ again when I’m more… stable. I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be.” He was disappointed, and irritated at being disappointed, but didn’t let it show.

After Will’s attack, they’d made a decision to put off any talks of marriage until after a nebulous period of convalescence. It had been two months. Will had gone back to work. A few pokes and prods had yielded nothing but more of the same: _not yet_.

So, it was disappointing. But Will’s resilience was part of what drew Hannibal to him in the first place. He wasn’t the type to fall down at anyone’s feet. Powerless and Vulnerable didn’t look good on him. Give him a little bite, a little fight, something that creeped over, under, and through the walls of Hannibal’s mind.

“You’re back early,” Hannibal observed, noting Will’s sickly face. “Are you alright? What happened?”

Will shrugged a blanketed shoulder. “I got called in to look at a crime scene. It was… fresh. Very fresh. I must’ve gotten dizzy or something from the smell and I guess I… Well, everything got a little hazy and the next thing I know, I’m propped up against the nearest wall with people over me asking me if I’m ok.”

Hannibal leaned in and touched Will’s forehead, finding the skin clammy instead of overheated. He inhaled discreetly, closing his eyes. Will’s breath smelled of repeated mouthwash rinses, but there was a faint sourness of vomit coming from his clothes. Probably a few specks of splash-back.

His skin had no sweet stench of fever, but something else entirely, something with creamy, musky undertones. Something fleshy and delicious. Something…

He pulled back, face neutral. “Did you eat anything after breakfast?” he inquired.

Will wagged his head listlessly from side to side. “And I didn’t manage to hold onto breakfast for long, anyway.” He peeked sheepishly at Hannibal before concluding, “I threw up after I fainted. Not my finest moment.”

Hannibal stood. “I’ll get you something.”

“I’m not hungry,” Will protested.

“You need your strength, Will.”

He left Will in his bundle on the couch and went to heat up some soup. He kept a ceramic snap top container of homemade broth in the fridge. He tipped a golden-brown gelatinous mass of it into a saucepan and stirred until it was bubbling and fragrant. He added a handful of herbs, freshly snipped from his garden, and a few strands of homemade noodles, then dished it into a porcelain bowl with a side of toast. He brought it back to the parlor on stockinged feet.

Will hadn’t moved the entire time he was gone, slump-shouldered and border collie-gazing at nothing.

“Here, it’s light,” he said softly, holding out a steamy spoonful and blowing on it.

“Don’t, I’m gonna vomit,” said Will, his head tilting away like a child trying to avoid a pill.

“I slaved over a hot stove,” Hannibal said faux-petulantly, trying to provoke a smile and not getting one. “You haven’t eaten all day. Low blood sugar is making you dizzy and nauseated. I know you don’t feel like it, but having something in your stomach can settle it. Just a bite.”

Will relented with a sigh. He shuffled and twisted around fussily, before leaning forward and sipping from the side of the spoon, the frown lines on his face smoothing out at the warm, savory taste. “It’s good,” he conceded, reaching for the bowl. “What is it?”

“Beef,” said Hannibal, his smile sharp.

“Mmm.”

He made it through nearly half the bowl before setting it down abruptly, clapping a hand to his mouth, smothering a sickly gurgle.

Hannibal snatched up the nearest plastic-lined bin and brought it over just in time for Will to throw up into it. He patted Will’s back through the wet and then dry heaves.

“Ugh…” Will panted after a good five minutes. “I don’t know what’s wrong with me. Stomach bug?”

 Hannibal touched his forehead again though he already knew what he’d feel, then gently stroked Will’s hair in the process. “You don’t have a fever. If you don’t mind, I’d like to run some tests.”

“You’re gonna bleed me, Doctor?”

“And a urine test as well,” said Hannibal. He proffered the now cooled cup of tea. “Drink up.”

He ended up taking two vials of blood and a urine sample. Will was slack-jawed and listless through the process, compliant but sulky, and then shuffled off to take a shower while Hannibal drove the samples to a doctor friend of his who had an in-house lab. On the way back, he bought fresh fruit, lotion with aloe and vitamin E, and herbal tea that was sold by the ounce and wrapped in parchment.

Will was napping when he returned, wearing one of Hannibal’s too-large sweaters and looking so warm and comfortable that Hannibal joined him, cupping his body around Will’s smaller one and inhaling the new buttery scent of him, nose pressed to his dark curls. He fell into a light doze with a small, secret smile.

Will woke up late in the afternoon with an appetite, and Hannibal made omelets with cream and shallots and fresh peas and a scrape of aged cheese on top. A chilled glass of Riesling for himself but not for Will. “It might be better to avoid anything stimulating,” he explained. “At least until we know what’s wrong.”  

The phone rang as they were eating at the kitchen countertop. The doctor’s office number flashed on the caller ID, and Hannibal picked it up.

“Hello?” said Hannibal, smiling even before they’d finished giving him the news. News that he already knew, but now had on record. “I see. Thank you.”

“Who’s that?” said Will.

“The lab results,” said Hannibal, taming his smile, though his blood was prickling with anticipation. He felt like licking his teeth. He sat down next to Will and took his hand, adopted a concerned expression.

“Did they tell you what was wrong with me?”

“I wouldn’t say _wrong_.” He paused, angled his body a little closer. Took a breath. “Will… you’re pregnant.”

Will stopped mid-chew. His stared at Hannibal’s face disbelievingly, searching for humor or deception. Finding none. He swallowed with effort, his neck tensing and cording like he was gulping down marbles.

“That’s impossible.”

Hannibal sighed sympathetically. “They did a urine and a blood test. We can bring you to the hospital tomorrow to confirm but… I believe what they told me is true.”

Will was shaking his head now, nervous little jerks back and forth, the kind a small dog would make when threatened. “No. _No._ I can’t be. Hannibal…” he pleaded. “You _know_ I can’t.”

Will’s supposed infertility had always been a delicate topic. A painful, tender, and sometimes angry one. Like an inflamed wound. They didn’t talk about it much, even though Hannibal wanted to push further in, wanted to vivisect that particular trauma and lay out the emotions and pathologies like organs on an operating table. But it was one of those (many) inconvenient times that his compassion for Will overrode his hunger.

He watched like a hawk as Will’s face colored with a palette of shock, disbelief, and anguish… and was that a faint trace of hope? A blush of fearful joy? But then Will was shooting up and striding crookedly across the room, aiming for the nearest bathroom.

Hannibal followed slowly, taking the time to fetch a glass of water, before attending to Will, who was retching miserably over the toilet, hands shaking as he flushed away the remains of his meal.

He stroked Will’s arched back, noting and disliking its boniness, and proffered the water while saying inane, sympathetic things, _it’s alright, you’re alright, just let it out…_

“It’s a false positive,” Will said harshly when he came up for air. “A… a h-hormone imbalance. Or something.”

“Or a miracle,” said Hannibal.

“A _miracle?_ ” Will huffed incredulously. “There’s no such thing. If I am… _if_ I am…”

Hannibal brushed back some of Will’s hair and touched the cool glass to his lips, tipping it so he drank. “Would that be so bad?” he asked softly.

Will barked out something that was half-laugh, half-sob. “But what if it’s… what if it isn’t… _yours?_ ” he finished, his chin wobbling, his eyes going lost-child round.

Only two Alphas had ever touched Will. One was, of course, Hannibal himself.

The Other had been a serial killer that Will had been very close to catching. He’d caught Will instead. Two months ago, Will had been taken. The abduction had only lasted little more than a day, 30 hours total, but the effects were possibly longer lasting. Much longer.

“It’s alright,” Hannibal soothed. He set the glass down so Will could slump into his arms. He cradled Will’s head in his hand, stroking and massaging the back of his neck, embracing him and rocking him gently until Will’s body relaxed and he began to cry quietly. “Don’t think about it. That’s not important right now.”

It wasn’t important. Not to Hannibal. There were ways to figure out if the baby was his or not. If it was his, he’d gladly take ownership of both the child and Will. His Alpha’s instincts were already thrumming through him like a plucked string, his heart thudding with brutal, bloody, bare-fanged possessiveness.

If it wasn’t his, there were ways to remedy that too. Drugs slipped into Will’s food or drink, eyes rolling back into unconsciousness, then rubber gloves snapping and a descent into Hannibal’s hidden operating room. Will waking up alone to bloodied sheets. Perhaps there would be wailing and tears. A call to the emergency room. Then a long, quiet period of healing for Will with Hannibal at his side, respectful and attentive and loving. Perhaps he would take Will abroad. There were some beautiful convalescent homes in Salzburg for Omegas.  

It’s not as if the Other Alpha would be around to take responsibility. Or fight Hannibal for ownership of either the child or Will. Or do much of anything, really.

And if Will could get pregnant once, he could get pregnant again.

Hannibal tightened his arms around the man he’d come to love, and smiled. Everything would work out.


	2. Seduction

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A look back at how Will and Hannibal got together and the case that caused Will's attack.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> No profits made, no copyright infringement intended! Please heed the warnings, there is graphic content ahead!

_About two months ago…_

 

“Tell me, Will, are you a virgin?”

The question was unexpected – a wind-whipped leaf in the face – but it was passed casually to him along with the next plate he was loading into Hannibal’s dishwasher, _here you go_.

He took a moment to breathe, staring at a magenta stain, a sticky crumb between fork tines, replaying the entire meal in his head in order to steady himself – a sinfully creamy liver pâté with a brandy sauce, gazpacho with hot croutons on the side, roasted capon stuffed with spicy sausage, and a delicate fruit crumble served in a carefully constructed chocolate bowl with a frilled rim.

A glance at Hannibal showed his host nonchalantly wiping down the glassware. Unruffled. Slight smile aimed at the crystal stems.

_Am I a virgin? What the hell kind of question is that?_

Will grabbed his glass of wine from the kitchen counter and took a too-quick mouthful, leaving a sudsy thumbprint on the glass. His next sentence started with a cough.

“In what _context_ are you asking this, Doctor?”

Hannibal quirked his eyebrows and the corner of his mouth, indicating a shrug without actually shrugging. “Just selfish curiosity.”

“ _Why_?”

Hannibal very deliberately put down what he was doing, turned to face Will, and took a step closer, Will rocking backwards almost reflexively. “Because I was wondering why you’re so against the idea of us making love.”

That drew a shocked huff of laughter from him, straight from the diaphragm. “Have I missed something? I didn’t realize _making love_ was ever on the menu.” Even as he said it, his anxious skittering mind was replaying the last few months of their lives: evening therapy sessions ending in a shared bottle of wine, therapy becoming friendly conversations after the one-hour mark, conversations becoming intimate, the hours stretching on. Dinners. Music. Coming up with excuses to spend lunch together and then spending lunches together just because. A delectably comfortable sofa and a blanket drawn over him when he was too tipsy to drive home, Hannibal whispering _Goodnight Will_ , as he dimmed the lights.

Will felt himself starting to sweat. “Did it just… fly over my head that you propositioned me at some point?”

“It wasn’t overt, no. I didn’t want to be crass. Perhaps that was my mistake.”

“What, not being crass?”

“Being too subtle.”

Will found his gaze slipping, unable to meet Hannibal’s, concentrating instead on the doctor’s damp forearms, the sleeves of his dress shirt cuffed neatly at his elbows, the lean lines of his waist. He found himself gulping.

“I’d thought my attraction to you, and my intentions to act on that attraction were clear. When you failed to respond, I thought you were against the idea of us, together. I was mistaken.” Hannibal brushed a stray curl of Will’s hair with the back of a knuckle. There was no heat to it, the touch was light and insubstantial as candy floss. It felt good, non-demanding. “You simply had no idea, did you?”

Will felt himself smiling back, albeit nervously. “Maybe not… consciously.”

“Unconsciously, then? You had some idea?” A step closer, and Hannibal was almost on top of him, and Will forgot to match it with a step back. He could feel the heat from Hannibal’s body invading his own. “Maybe you saw, if only in periphery, the slide of my fond and wayward thoughts?”

Will let out an exhale, that may or may not have been a breathy moan. _So, this is what it’s like to be seduced. Not leered at or fumbled at, or awkwardly propositioned. It’s nice._ He had never thought it would happen to him. It wasn’t _supposed_ to happen to him, Will Graham – flannelled and mussed and jittery, a dried-up omega – and it unnerved him as much as thrilled him.

“I…” He rocked back and separated himself. “I have an… early start tomorrow. I should… I should be going…”

He made for the door, already thinking frantically of the location of his jacket, which pocket his car keys were in, which freeway to take on his drive home.

“Will,” Hannibal called out, just as he reached the entrance, jacket half shrugged on. “I’ve made you uncomfortable. I’m sorry.”

He stopped, toe in, toe out, then felt himself turn around like he was being magnetized. “No, I… it’s not… I’m not…” He stammered for a while, Hannibal letting him do it, before heaving a sigh and saying, “I just don’t _do_ this sort of thing.”

“Surely, you’ve had affairs before, or been asked to have an affair,” said Hannibal, walking towards him until they were chest to chest again.

Will laughed a little helplessly. “I wouldn’t even begin to know _how_ to have an affair.” Then he saw Hannibal’s little quirk of a smile and felt compelled to add, “The status of my virginity being _irrelevant_ and none of anyone’s business.”

Hannibal’s smile widened and spread to his eyes, warming his whole face. “Well then, virginity being irrelevant, I could teach you how to have an affair.”

Will could feel himself blushing hot from the roots of his hair all the way down to his neck, then further down still, as his traitorous mind pictured the things Hannibal could _teach_ him. He tried to speak but his tongue was stuck to his mouth.

Hannibal touched his shoulder, as if to steady him, and then leaned in and kissed him on the cheek, as lightly as if he were flicking off a stray eyelash, Will turning to stone beneath him. “But not tonight,” Hannibal whispered into his ear. He drew back, his smile teasing. “You have an early start tomorrow. Good night, Will. Drive safe.”

Then Hannibal opened the door for him and he was out in the cold night air, the latch clicking shut behind him, his face still burning.

X

X

She was splayed out like a high school frog dissection under the electrical lights of her bedroom. Her hands and feet reached for the posts of her bed, ankles and wrists purple from rope that was no longer there. Rusty streaks of blood on pink sheets, dried fans of arterial spray on the headboard, the wallpaper, the Himalayan salt lamp on her nightstand. Her throat, a slashed second mouth.

“Victim Number Four: Geraldine Thompson. Was a bartender downtown. Aspiring model-actress. Shared the house with two roommates.”

Jack’s voice seemed far away, booming down an echoey corridor, as Will breathed deep and reconstructed the scene in his mind. He saw her ghost perched at the creaky plastic table that served as a vanity, dabbing peachy foundation, applying tease after tease of mascara, then pouting her lips for deep red lipstick. Then, setting each item down with a click where they now stood under a thin layer of dust, abandoned but attentive. _At ease, soldiers_.

She’d been asleep and clean-scrubbed when she’d been attacked – her nightgown and underwear found frantically shredded and flung towards the far wall – but still pretty. Fortified with makeup and curls under the glowing bar lights, perfume mingling with the mouthwatering smell of the drinks she poured, she must have been radiant with artificial beauty. Desirable. Scornful. Out of reach.   

 _Bitch_ , he heard his own voice whisper over his left shoulder, a faceless shadow of the man he’d been building up in his mind. The hate and rage blasted him like a furnace. He could feel his skin crackle.

“He… knew her,” he said with difficulty, and saw Jack turn towards him. “Maybe not _personally_ , but he knew where she worked, when her shift ended. He knew that she worked late and slept late. That her roommates left early, so that she would be alone and asleep. He stalked her.” He flipped through the profiles of the other victims, the death wounds grinning up at him from the glossy pages. “Just like the others.”

“So it’s the same guy?” Jack pressed.

He nodded, the _yeah_ not making it up his throat. Three other murders had occurred before Jack had brought him on. All of them women, betas. One had been strangled, the other two had their throats cut, like Geraldine Thompson. All of them bore extensive pre-mortem wounds, signs of torture. Rape and sodomy. The first one, Kathryn Holmes, had an eye ripped out which was later found in her bathroom sink like a discarded grape.

“I see the same anger. The same desire to debase. To _hurt_.”

“Classic sadist,” drawled Brian Zeller, snapping a picture of Geraldine’s left foot. Will pictured it kicking, big toe curling inwards, dislocating, as she thrashed against the rope. The toes were painted coral pink. Zeller’s voice sounded deep and far away. “He was probably fascinated with weapons and violence as a kid. Hurt small animals, other children, the whole package. Learned early on that being cruel and demeaning feels good.”

“These marks,” muttered Beverly Katz, indicating the ropy welts that crisscrossed her naked torso. “Looks like she was whipped. With an electrical cord, maybe?”

Something pinged in Will’s mind.

“He’s probably got some sort of childhood trauma,” Zeller was droning on. “Physical or psychological, something happened to him. Maybe something wrong with his brain or his privates. A messed-up body can mess up the way he thinks about sex. Like crossed wires, pain becomes pleasure. Rape can be a form of sadism…”

“Yes, I know what sadism is, thanks,” Will cut in, getting an annoyed look from Zeller. His skin was starting to buzz with discomfort as Zeller’s words rattled around his uncompartmentalized mind. His gaze, avoiding her eyes, had fallen on Geraldine’s abdomen instead. There was a fist of a bruise where her womb would be. Between her spread thighs, her genitals were bruised, ravaged.

His own womb ached in response.

 _Bitch,_ whispered the voice over his shoulder. _Thinks she’s too good for me. Bitch. I wanna hurt her. Again and again and again…_

“Will?”

He flinched at the sound of his name. Will had forgotten that Hannibal was even there until he’d stepped into the space the killer was occupying, over Will’s left shoulder.

“Are you alright?” asked Hannibal, touching his arm. It wasn’t overly intimate, but it reminded Will of hot food and dim lights, a kiss at Hannibal’s door, the smell of good wine, and it got some of the blood back into his drained cheeks.

“He filmed it,” said Will, gasping a little. “The attack, he filmed it.” With the others’ eyes on him, he pulled away from Hannibal and went to one corner of the room and then another. The view of the bed was better in the northwest corner, the side closest to the door. There was a small but noticeable clear space, magazines and clothes and shoes had been shuffled to the side so that there was a patch of bare floor. There was an outlet on that wall, and an unplugged pink nightlight lying discarded on its side.

“Here,” he said, pointing. “He set up a stand here for a recording device. Filmed it, so he could watch it again and again.”

“Nice catch,” said Beverly. “If he uploaded them somewhere… Might be a long shot but we can keep an eye out.”

Zeller nodded, as if satisfied. “A sadistic psychopath commits murder to act out his fantasies. And then collects the experience, to fuel future fantasies.”

“Which he then acts out again, when they become unbearable,” Jimmy Price supplied. “It’s a vicious cycle.” He was inspecting the neck wound. “I’ll bet you a corner shop coffee that the knife patterns here, and here…” he pointed to the woman’s left nipple which had been sawed off and grimaced, “match the ones found on victims Two and Three.”

 _See what I’ve done? She deserved it. They all deserved it._ Ugly words, angry words that an angry Alpha male would use when he felt snubbed. A roll of laughter in them.

Will felt himself shiver. He’d taken off his coat and left it in the foyer, and now the sweat on his back and neck was drying, chilling him. He fought the urge to hug himself. He didn’t like appearing frail.

“He’ll have taken trophies,” he said.

“You mean…” Beverly began, then stopped, glancing quickly at Jack. No one wanted to mention the Ripper, even in comparison.

“Personal items,” Jimmy Price cut in.  “Something they wore or carried.”

“He loves what he does,” said Will. “He filmed them, so he can relive the experience, like an expensive holiday. He’ll want souvenirs too.”

He flipped through the other photos, looked at headshots of pretty women, imagining charms, lockets, braided bracelets.

Jack was nodding. “We’ll speak with family members, friends, coworkers, ask them if the victims are missing anything they usually carried. Jimmy, check the hair too for cut patterns, he might have taken a snip.”

“You know,” Zeller piped up, capping the lens on his camera, “some say rape is an evolutionary weapon, for those that are sexually deficient. Someone who can’t reproduce the normal way.”

 _Bitch. Whore. Useless omega whore. What good are you?_   

“… they’re no good to anyone, at least not for reproduction. No one desires them. Society thinks they’re abnormal. So, they use rape as the only way available to them to pass on their genes. A deviant solution for a deviant person.”

Will felt a hard slice of phantom pain in his abdomen, then felt it drop lower, into his groin. “Can you just _stop_?” he snapped out.

“What?” Zeller snapped back. “You’re the only one who’s allowed to think out loud?”

“You’re not thinking, you’re regurgitating some quack sociobiology nonsense about how a psychopath is trying to reproduce with a _dead_ woman just to hear yourself running your mouth, so why don’t you just shut your-”

“Will!” Jack’s voice cracked out, as Zeller growled out a “Hey, you wanna back off?”

Jack stepped between them, barrier-like, and Will felt himself instantly deflating. “I’m sorry,” he stammered.

Jack glared down at him for a moment, before coughing out an irritated, “ok.” He waved to the rest of the team, “Come on, let’s give him a minute.”

They filed out with minimal grumbling, and Will felt compelled to reach out to Zeller and say, “Look, Brian, I was out of line, I’m-”

“Eh, don’t worry about it, just do your thing,” was the dismissive, shruggy response. _Hysterical omega, whattaya gonna do_ was unspoken, but Will heard it all the same.

Geraldine’s cold, ravaged slab of a body awaited him and he suddenly felt, terribly, achingly alone.

Hannibal was the last to exit, lingering at the threshold. On impulse, Will snagged a coat sleeve and mumbled, “Stay. Please.”

“Of course,” said Hannibal. He stepped back in and closed the door on Jack’s inquisitive backwards look. “You don’t have to look alone, Will. I’m here with you.”

“Thank you.”

They stood side by side, Hannibal’s hand on his elbow. “What do you see?” Hannibal urged.

“I don’t… I don’t _want_ to see,” Will whispered back. He could feel his eyes watering.

He felt Hannibal touch his hair, patting gently, guiding his head to rest on a strong shoulder. He didn’t pull away.

“Violence against women or omegas could mean he’s lashing out against a maternal figure,” Hannibal offered.

Will shook his head. “No… no this isn’t that.”

“He hated all women?”

“Yes. But he also desired them. He wants them but can’t have them. He’s… deficient in some way.”

“He has a condition? A physical deformity?”

“Or thinks he does. No… I’m thinking he actually does.”

Hannibal took a breathy pause before saying, “Mr. Zeller upset you.”

Will felt hot. “It wasn’t his fault. I’m just on edge. And,” he admitted with a sigh, “it doesn’t mean he was wrong. Whoever did this was sexually or reproductively deficient in some way.” _Like myself_.

“A sadist.”

“He was lacking. Inadequate. Angry. Violent. Alpha, most likely.”

Hannibal walked over to the head of the bed, angling himself to avoid a stack of magazines perched precariously on the nightstand, a half-open bottle of coral nail polish on top, the cap crusty with residue. He bent over Geraldine’s face. “Eyes open,” he observed. “And intact. The first victim, Kathryn Holmes, had her left eye gouged out.”

Will pictured thick hairy-knuckled fingers on the back of Kathryn Holmes’ neck, holding her down, mashing her face into the mattress as he sodomized her. Her struggling to turn her head sideways so she could breathe, nose scraping the sheets, one brown eye rolling, staring up at her torturer. Then, a furious male roar: _Don’t look at me!_ Thick fingers scrabbling, gouging, frantically ripping out the offending eye for _daring_ to see…

“And the other two had bruise patterns and trace fibers around their eyes consistent with blindfolds. Geraldine Thompson died with her eyes open, gazing up at her killer.” Hannibal looked to him, gently prompting an explanation. _Well?_

There wasn’t much room to pace; Will shuffled back and forth in a three-step circle around Geraldine’s stuff as he talked, a pair of pink heels, a cardboard box of books still unpacked, a carnival prize bear that slumped into itself, forlorn. “He maims and kills, brutalizing his victims, to satisfy his fantasies, but it only lasts a short while. Like a fire spark, disappearing into smoke. It makes him want more.”

“Acting out his fantasies only feeds his hunger.”

“Not just feed. It elevates.”

He blinked slowly. He saw Geraldine’s dead body replaced with Kathryn Holmes’ live one. Live, but in her death throes, striped and splotchy with wounds, her empty eye socket streaming red ribbons, her body convulsing. She’d been found in her bed too, like Geraldine, her sheets a faded blue instead of pink. She’d pissed on them. Above her was the Alpha, furious in his inadequacy, his naked humping buttocks still thrusting frantically as he choked the life from her. Will could feel her pulse shiver under his hands.

“Holmes was strangled. It wasn’t planned, it was an angry response. He didn’t want her to see him. So he gouges out her eye and kills her. May not have even planned to at first. But when he does, it excites him. Crossed wires, pain and horror become pleasure to him. He gets a taste for it now. All the rest had their throats cut. That’s not like a strangling, it’s more deliberate. He blindfolded the other two after Holmes. Also deliberate. But then…”

He glanced at Geraldine, forces himself to look into the gray pearls of her eyes. “Then he wonders if he’ll like being watched. He wants to see shame and disgust and fear in her eyes. He makes her look, adding a new sensation to the… design. Like trying a new seasoning on a dish.”

Will breathed hard, hugging himself. “He has difficulty maintaining an erection. That’s why he needs all the… pain and humiliation. A multitude of wounds over time. He can’t achieve sexual release without it. He’s an Alpha but lacks the typical Alpha traits: virility, strength, musculature, heightened sex drive. The look. The feel. He’s self-conscious.”

“Perhaps a chromosomal or endocrine disorder,” said the doctor.

Hannibal looked clinically over Geraldine’s body. “If it’s true what you say about his desires being elevated by brutality, these murders may not have been his first attempt at realizing his fantasies.”

Will nodded wordlessly.

 “Jack,” he called out.

The door opened almost immediately. Jack must have been perched, bird-like, right on the other side. “What’ve you got?” he demanded. If he was curious about Hannibal’s closeness to Will, he didn’t mention it.

“We’re looking for an Alpha,” he said. “I think he’s got a history of lesser sex crimes. Someone who’s medically diagnosed with-”

A flash of red caught his eye, a pale crescent of face slipping just out of sight. He froze for a second, thinking he was seeing a ghost of Victim 2, a redheaded part-time accountant and mother of two. He groaned in half-relief, half-irritation when realized he wasn’t actually hallucinating. “Ugh. Jack… someone’s dropping eaves.” He gestured to the window, where Freddie Lounds had just ducked out of sight.

Jack growled and stalked from the room. Will could hear him bellowing at her.

X

“You asked me if I was a virgin.”

“I asked you as a friend, who was hoping to become something more. It was a personal question, and it made you uncomfortable. You don’t have to answer it in therapy.”

“I think I do.”

From the opposite chair, Hannibal looked at him through intent, half-lidded eyes, one leg crooked over the other, hands folded primly in his lap. A faux leather blue book with Will’s therapy notes lay on the nearby glass table.

A pencil sketch of Will’s face in profile had slipped out between the pages once, fluttering to Hannibal’s glossy desktop before the doctor swept it away. Will had blushed and pretended not to notice, while Hannibal had pretended not to notice Will pretending not to notice. 

“Jack’s latest case upset you,” said Hannibal. “More than the usual ugliness. Can you tell me why?”

Will wrung his hands, feeling achy. “It’s called… metahysteriosis.” He glanced quickly at Hannibal’s impassive face. “You, uh, probably know all about it, being a former surgeon.”

Hannibal made a gentle _go on_ gesture with his hand. Will got the impression he knew exactly what it was, but wanted to hear Will’s voice describing it.

“It’s a disorder.  A condition that occurs in male omegas during puberty, when a boy presents. It’s rare but,” he forced a chuckle, “apparently not rare enough. When my sexual organs were developing, specifically my womb, there was a problem with my hormones. It caused a mutation between my girl parts and my boy parts, resulting in a rupture. Crossed wires.”

“When did it happen?”

“I was 14.”

“Young, then. Tell me, what was it like?”

Will felt a shiver starting to build at the base of his spine. “Bloody,” he whispered, and felt his veins freeze.

And he was 14 again and there was hot wetness streaming from the left leg of his gym shorts, him embarrassed, wondering if he’d pissed himself, then someone shouting _dude, what happened to you?_ Him looking down, realizing it was blood, great spiky rivers of it going down one leg, soaking his crotch, then going down the other leg too. The basketball slipping from his fingers, the fleshy thump of it going once, twice, on the gym floor. Then the ceiling lights blurred above him and the bleachers went sideways, him realizing too late _oh I’m falling_ , his body bouncing as he hit the ground, not even feeling it for the pain in his belly. He heard the deep, throaty voice of the gym coach calling for an omega nurse.

When he opened his eyes again, it was his father sitting slumped next to his hospital bed, looking exhausted. The doctors told him in gentle voices that his parts were wrong, damaged, and that he would never be able to reproduce, him not sure whether to cry or not, the enormity of the situation crashing against a dam of absolute numbness.

The next few weeks passed in awkward, delicate quietness, his gruff father uncharacteristically tender, attentive. While Will rested unfeelingly in bed, Dad drove to white-tiled pharmacies in his oil-stained clothes to peer, scrunched-nosed, at the locked glass cabinets of ointments and pills and suppositories and bandages that were meant to be inserted, cross-check them with the doctor’s list, then make the purchase with creased, pulpy bills.

“As for why I’m a virgin,” said Will, his adult self still feeling the same lonely ache, and sneering slightly to cover it, “well… a messed-up body can mess up the way we think about sex.”

“You’re not messed up, Will.”

“Hah. Most medical professionals would disagree.”

Hannibal shifted forward in his seat, elbows resting on his knees with hands clasped in between. Was it Will’s imagination, or were the seats closer than usual? If he leaned forward the same way, their hands would be almost close enough to touch. “You were able to empathize with this killer. Reconstruct his mindset more thoroughly and quickly than I’ve ever seen you do before. Is it because some part of you believes he shares your suffering?”

“How do you imagine we’re suffering?” said Will, immediately defensive.

“Medical disorders can be traumatizing. Traumas experienced at a young age can cause wounds that continue into adulthood, causing the traumatized to form a false image of himself. The killer sees himself as imperfect, damaged. An Alpha, but an inadequate one. He feels shame and through that shame, creates a false self-image.”

“I _don’t_ have a false self-image.”

Hannibal tilted his head and looked at Will from an angle, snake-like. If he had fangs, Will was sure he would’ve bared them. “You speak of your virginity as a consequence of your condition. That is evidence of a false self.”

“Um…”

“The killer sees himself as a factory-defective Alpha. Do you see yourself that way?”

Will shook his head. “I _don’t_ think I’m too broken to love or anything trite like that. It’s just… relationships never happened for me. After the diagnosis, well… what would be the point?” 

“Did you never have urges?”

“Of course. I’m still human.” The back of his neck prickled with the beginnings of a blush. “My heats still occur but they’re… irregular. Easily managed. Useless, I guess.”

A tiny curve of a smile from Hannibal’s otherwise inscrutable mouth. “Your mind irrevocably links sexual pleasure and reproduction. A rather archaic notion.”

The words _sexual pleasure_ ghosted over him like a fingertip, like Hannibal whispered it right into his ear. It made him run hot and cold at the same time, tugging at the corners of his lips into an irrepressible smile.

 _Infertile, unable to conceive, irregular cycles_ … but he still remembered those papery whispers from the overly gentle doctor. The pitying looks the nurses gave him along with a sippy cup of apple juice. His skinny knees drawn tight to his aching abdomen. His dad giving him a few awkward pats on the shoulder while averting his eyes, wanting to give comfort but not sure how.

“You are a beautiful man, Will. I say that objectively. You are intelligent and not without your charms. But because of your condition, you see yourself as undesirable. You deny your natural urges. And you make yourself unapproachable.”

A shot of bitterness went through him from neck to belly. Anger he couldn’t name. At the doctors who couldn’t cure him. At his own disobedient teenaged body for breaking down, for not being able to do the one, mindless thing it was supposed to do. At his parents and whatever defective mix of genetics they squirted into each other when making him.

“What _are_ we exactly, at this moment?” he whispered, blinking rapidly at the sudden wetness in his eyes. “Doctor and patient? Friends? _Lovers_?” There was a bitter twist to the last word.

Hannibal’s long fingers brushed the pages of Will’s patient notes, then flicked the book shut. “Perhaps I’ve… been less ethical than my typical judgement would allow when I blurred the boundaries of our relationship. But I can’t say I regret it.” He stood and took two measured steps over to Will’s chair, leaned against an armrest and touched Will’s shoulder.

“I promise you this, Will. Whatever it is that you need at this moment for you to unburden yourself, doctor or friend or lover, I can be that. And short of you confessing to planting a bomb in the Capitol building, or enjoying reality television, there will be no judgement from me.”

“I like the survivor shows.” He laughed and Hannibal smiled to see him laugh. “We live in an enlightened time. It’s fashionable to think ourselves above animal instincts and prejudices. But if generations of war have taught us anything, it’s that at our core, we. Are. Savages. We are driven by biology, and one of our most primal urges if not _most_ primal urge, is reproduction.”

“Through our offspring, we achieve immortality,” Hannibal said neutrally.

“Alpha, omega, beta… rich or poor, how many cars we own, how many gender equality studies courses we take, we are obsessed with the idea of _legacy_.”

He breathed, took a moment to gather himself before saying with difficulty, “I won’t ever have a legacy. Or be able to provide someone else with one. I’ve heard all the motivational soundbites and I’ve read all the ‘living with’ pamphlets. It’s just… I just can’t help thinking…” He trailed off and pinched the bridge of his nose. He felt Hannibal’s fingers on the back of his neck, the touch clinical and intimate at the same time, a light kiss of skin. “I can’t help thinking that whoever happens to _want_ me, whoever I end up having relations with… would just be fucking an empty womb.”

The bitter words lingered in the air like a bad smell, marinating.

“No, they wouldn’t,” said Hannibal, and offered a gentle smile when Will looked at him disbelievingly. “They wouldn’t be fucking an empty womb,” he said, the angry words smoothed out on his tongue. He touched Will’s face with the back of his knuckles, leaning in so they were face-to-face, eye-to-eye. “They would be making love to a devastatingly handsome man, with the most beautiful eyes I’ve ever seen.”

And _damn_ it, it felt good. Who was immune to praise? Who didn’t like to be told _you are beautiful?_ It felt like really good a drink of scotch whisky, all warm and liquid and golden, the ugliness he saw in himself and in the world banished to the back of his mind.

“Oh God, I think I want you,” whispered Will, which Hannibal took as permission, and his mouth came down on Will’s in a needy kiss.

X

_Present Day_

The next day, Hannibal drove him in for an ultrasound.

They’d agreed to meet back at the hospital in the afternoon. Will got there early and consigned himself to a long wait in a room that was humid with recirculated air and general distress. A pair of women slumped against each other, snoring, looking like they’ve been waiting long enough to grow mushrooms. A man jittered and scratched at himself, sniffing every now and then, his foot a staccato patter against the floor. A bored-looking cop kept watch over a young man handcuffed to a chair. Someone was eating a microwaved bean burrito, the spicy smell of it making Will hungry and nauseated at the same time.

But then Hannibal showed up, all angular and dashing and well-dressed, and the dour receptionist was greeting him with a pink-cheeked smile: “Dr. Lector!” and Hannibal was leaning over the front desk to talk to her, indicating that he was with Will, and within a minute, they found themselves deposited in a private waiting room. A nurse was sent by to deliver two bottles of spring water and a stack of magazines.

“Wow,” said Will. “Friends in high places, huh?”

Hannibal shrugged slightly and cracked open a bottle of water for him. “Why not take advantage?”

Within the span of a blood pressure test, the doctor was striding in and greeting Hannibal by first name.

“I’m Will Graham,” said Will, feeling faded into the background. “I’m Hannibal’s… uh…”

He glanced at Hannibal, who framed his shoulders with both hands like he was a kid and said, “Will and I are in a relationship. We’re very concerned about his health.”

“Yes, I got the paperwork that the lab sent over,” said Dr. Horowitz. “I believe congratulations are in order.” He smiled at Will, who refused to meet his eyes.

“So it’s true? I’m pregnant.”

“Yes. Congratulations.” Wide smile. Too many teeth. It made Will uncomfortable. He didn’t feel like celebrating.

It was Hannibal who gently cleared his throat and said, “David, we do have some reservations about this pregnancy. You see, there are circumstances-”

“Can we do a paternity test?” Will said bluntly.

“A paternity test?” echoed Dr. Horowitz.

“I want to know if Hannibal is the father.”

Judgement clouded the doctor’s expression briefly, before his eyes widened, his mouth drooping in sympathy. Will wondered if Dr. Horowitz watched the news.

The doctor’s reassuring tone was slightly forced when he said, “Of course. Given how far you’re along, there’s a non-invasive test we can do right now. The results should take about a week.”

A week. A week of waiting to see if the Other Alpha was the father of Will’s baby, this inch-long curled up coffee bean inside him that was right now sprouting ears and eyes and lungs. To see if the man who had kidnapped and raped him, and almost killed him, was the father.

The doctor gently questioned Will about heat cycles and possible conception dates, Will answering monosyllabically, omitting things here and there so it sounded like he was a regretful but morally loose omega rather than a rape victim. He got the sense Horowitz _knew_ , nonetheless.

The doctor took some of Will’s blood and a swab of Hannibal’s cheek, then said he’d give them a referral to a specialist for male pregnancies. “I’ll call you with the results as soon as possible,” he said. “But based on what you’ve told me, I’m almost sure that Hannibal is the father.” He smiled in what was supposed to be a reassuring way. “Why don’t you wait here. Susan will be by with the paperwork.” He paused with his mouth open, as if he wanted to say Congratulations again, but then thought better of it and left.

They sat in silence for a while, Hannibal holding Will’s limp hand.

“What are you smiling about?” Will asked, irritated.

“I’m trying to imagine you as a father.”

“Oh yeah?”

Hannibal nodded. “I think you would be a good one.”

That made Will’s stomach curdle. Bloody images flashed in his mind like a cheap horror movie. A dream of a dream. The Other Alpha – Will still couldn’t call him by name, not even in his thoughts – above him and around him, filling his vision, his hearing, invading five senses. Violating him. _Look at me. I want you to look at me!_

Then, the dream that always haunted him afterwards, the visions that sometimes seemed too real. A smear of blood, a knife in his own hands, the Other Alpha taunting him as he thrust deep into him, _Kill me, kill me_ even with his mouth closed and dead. A red splash of pure ecstasy.

“I don’t know if I agree with you.”

The worst part was that they never caught Erik Irons, the killer of four women. There had been no more bodies of savaged and raped victims. None had turned up after Will was found, limp and bleeding and rasping through a crushed throat, a shivering lone survivor. The hardware shop where the Alpha worked was found abandoned, as was his condo. For all they knew, he was still out there, lurking in the shadows like a stubborn ghost.

And was it much better if it the father turned out to be Hannibal? The doctor would never parent at a distance. He would insist on taking in Will and the baby, taking _responsibility_ , even if it meant tying himself down to an unstable, damaged omega like Will.

“Hannibal,” said Will, turning to face his lover. “What would you say if I told you I didn’t want to keep the baby?”

It took Hannibal a while to answer, and when he did, his eyes were deep and anguished. “You might find me offensively old-fashioned for saying so, but I can’t help thinking that it would be murder.”

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for reading! Please feedback and let me know what you think!

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you so much for reading! This is my first adventure into the Hannibal world, and I'm pretty new to the A/B/O world as well. Don't know if there are any hard and fast rules, since it varies from story to story. Please feedback and let me know what you think!


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